Obsessed
by PerfectMisfit
Summary: /When the weather isn't grieving with him Kisa indulges in another - perhaps less normal - activity. He wears Yukina's clothes./ Kisa Shouta/Yukina Kou, oneshot.


**i do not own sekaiichi hatsukoi. it is all property of nakamura shungiku-sensei and i claim no credit whatsoever from this. this fic includes character death; you have been warned. that being said, enjoy! ^^  
**

Kisa Shouta has found a new hobby.

Whilst others might consider it painfully tiresome and unbearably tedious, Kisa finds some degree of comfort in this process of staring at the rain-splattered scenery that lies beyond the window in front of him. It's still a hobby—still just a hobby, he reminds himself, because he isn't obsessed—that's just too dramatic a term for this state of being. He was never _obsessed_ and he feels the need to prove this fact to himself because Kisa does not want to admit that he is or was weak … or that he may have fallen and shattered on impact beyond the point of fixing himself back together with pretty words or comforting thoughts, even before the incident occurred. Kisa Shouta was always broken but there were ways to fix it before—

No, the residual vestige of rationality in his mind points out. There were only deceptions and smoke screens, never a solution nor a cure, not until he happened to being eyeing a certain art student in a bookstore. It wasn't as it Yukina magically pieced him back together either, fitting all the fragments and shards that were once a perfectly healthy—and sane—Kisa Shouta. It was probably akin to being held together in place, as if there was some entity that could keep him safe and sound in a solicitous embrace and were that entity to leave, he would scatter and eventually fade. There is also no way better to learn than firsthand experience and now that Yukina Kou is gone, Kisa knows the meaning of being damaged, even if he is reluctant to accept that it is an adjective that describes his present disposition astonishingly well.

Kisa is a collection of paradoxes; he is lonely, despite the number of people he is (and was) surrounded by and as characteristic of lonely people, he craves intimacy. He notes his drawbacks and he denies them as well; he is weak, but he tells himself he is strong despite his knowledge of his vulnerability. He has fallen off the edge, has lost it—whatever you want to call it, and whilst he knows, he tries to tell himself otherwise, perhaps in a feeble attempt to revert to his previous lifestyle, but he has reached the point where reality has just become too sweet for him to disillusion himself, as ironic as it is. Or rather having tasted love—specifically, Yukina Kou—morphing into his previously promiscuous self is a challenge. He doubts, from the very bottom of his heart, if he _really _can love anyone else as much as he loves the honey blonde and as soon as that thought crosses his mind, he scoffs and rolls his eyes, trying to suppress the shaking of his shoulders; that is not a notion he would have harboured prior to his having met Yukina and it is possibly an example of the influence Yukina has had on him.

A heart attack, the doctor said, claimed his life and Kisa thinks that is a cruel way for someone so young to pass away in; to have your own body turn tail and choke you from the inside out. Is it different from what he is feeling now, though? Finding his own mind becoming a renegade, battling against and contradicting itself—isn't that painful too? Does that induce more pain that a constriction of one's heart and arteries? Or is that a more prolonged type of pain, one that doesn't grant you oblivion or death in minutes but rather stretches it out for you to experience—and maybe question yourself further—every little moment? The more he thinks, the harsher his headache grows which only proves his point further.

When the weather isn't mourning with him (because only the rain reminds him of Yukina; despite his sunny attitude, there is something calming, but intriguing about the honey blonde—a quality that the rain holds as well, a quality that makes Kisa grin and not in the flirtatiously coy way he uses to pick up people when inebriated), Kisa indulges in another activity—this one is less normal, but in the bitter grief that Kisa is now drowning in, it's_ expected _that normalcy is alien to him and Kisa—albeit begrudgingly—admits that _perhaps _he doesn't have the necessary strength to appear normal.

He wears Yukina's clothes.

They don't fit him obviously, because Yukina was tall and muscular and Kisa knows he is small and delicate in that innocently childlike way he was meant to have grown out of years ago. Yukina's clothes are incredibly different from his own as well—they're mostly cotton or silk, woven finely with that refined, artistic touch that Kisa has begun to associate with Yukina. He only tries on the shirts; there's just something perverse about wearing his lover's pants and Kisa is not unhygienic enough to venture into Yukina's undergarments. His arms slip into the sleeves, shivering as his skin brushes against the cool silk. The cuffs fall well past his fingers, the hem of the shirt ending inches above his knees. It smells of him—pine, musky, fresh but alluring. It's a strangely wonderful feeling to wear Yukina's shirt, although it's a pathetic replacement for the man himself—but it's gentle, tender and it makes Kisa feel comforted somehow.

Even though Yukina is not present, not wrapping his toned arms around Kisa or whispering into Kisa's ears.

Kisa rises from his seat in front of the window and traipses into his bedroom. It's about half-past eleven now and he hasn't eaten since the apple he managed to hold down for breakfast, but there are no acids eroding away at his stomach, nor is there hunger demanding that he eat—there is thirst, or rather desire, to see Yukina again, but that is the sort of thirst that can never be quenched. His bedroom is cluttered, not in that homey or comfortable way many bedrooms are, but absolutely disorganised because Kisa cannot be bothered cleaning—he has never been bothered with menial chores like cleaning anyway. The bed is bare, the covers a deep blue and although it's a king-sized bed, only one side appears to be in use. The other side is gathering dust—it's been unoccupied for the longest time and Kisa refuses to wash his sheets or to even sleep on that half of the bed because it still smells of Yukina.

It's only a faint whiff that saunters over to him every once in a while but it lulls him to sleep in combination with the scent that is uniquely Yukina's from the art student's clothes (which Kisa invariably uses as pyjamas). He can't bear to let go of these precious and supposedly trivial things—not Yukina's clothes, nor the art supplies he has left on the kitchen counter, nor the pair of house slippers he _used _to wear; swathed in the too-big shirt with a blanket that Kisa can recall having shared with Yukina on multiple occasions, Kisa _is needy, desperate_, and in love.

There are some things more valuable than life, food or water, after all.

When he does fall asleep, several flashbacks and an hour later, it's with a gentle—almost delusional—smile playing on his lips; he remembers hazel eyes, devoid of so much as a trace of malice and an irreplaceable laugh, a gentle touch and smooth kisses pressed against his flushed face—

No.

He isn't obsessed.

At all.

* * *

**comments would be much appreciated :).**

**as usual, i'm worried about characterisation because ... well, all characters have their quirks and i never understand when i've gone overboard with them or when i haven't specified or brought them out enough. i'm also trying to keep the series' style in mind because i intended for whatever i write to fit with canon or seem like it could fit with canon - i would assume this would be a future fic? i hope i've done a good job with this fic :o.  
**


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